


apparition

by spoonsoflegends



Series: phantom pains [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ghost TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Memory Loss, Post-Exile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoonsoflegends/pseuds/spoonsoflegends
Summary: Tubbo says it again, slower, as if it’ll make more sense if he says it slower. “Tommy,you’re dead.”The blonde shakes his head, irritated. “No, Tubbo,” and he slows his tone down to match,“I’m not."
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: phantom pains [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2077380
Comments: 31
Kudos: 405





	apparition

Tommy wakes up.

He’s on the bridge. In the Nether. And when he tries to remember why, he can’t. 

Ah, but it’s not important, he figures. If it was important, he wouldn’t have forgotten. He’ll just ask Dream the next time he sees him, Tommy figures. That’ll work. Dream… usually knows things. Tommy stands up, and the ground is solid beneath his feet. It’s kind of strange, actually— his legs aren’t shaky, for once, and he’s not hungry. Not that he usually has any appetite nowadays.

He takes a few steps, somehow unsure that his legs will support his weight. They do. Tommy looks around for a moment and realizes— he’s on the bridge closest to the main portal, the one in DreamSMP, not in Logstedshire. He could go through. He  _ could. _ But Dream said he couldn’t, and the thought that Dream might see him outside sends a jolt of fear through him.

The Nether is oppressively hot. Heat radiates from the lava ocean below, from the netherrack, even the bricks of the portal hub would make you snatch your hand back after touching them. Somehow, though, the heat doesn’t… reach him, as much. Strange. Must be a side effect of spending so much time here.

Tommy wonders, for a moment, and hesitates. He looks towards his home, towards Logsted. He looks towards the portal. And he looks towards the compass suspended from a chain around his neck, spinning wildly without a target in the dimension.

Tommy wonders how long it’s been since Tubbo saw him— since he saw Tubbo. He can’t really remember the last time he did. And Dream… Dream will understand. He’s Tommy’s friend, after all.

His head starts to spin. It’s a side effect of the nether, he thinks. He saw that in a book somewhere— staying in the Nether for too long gives Players headaches. Something about dehydration.

Just a few moments in the Overworld, to get his bearings, maybe a bottle of water. No one will notice. If he can steal from Technoblade, he can get a bottle of water without anyone seeing.

He approaches the portal with new resolve, places his hand on the obsidian and finds it cool to the touch. The swirling portal sends off sparks that don’t sting— they’re  _ cold, _ compared to the Nether’s atmosphere. He steps inside and the chill washing over him gives Tommy goosebumps.

He steps out of the portal. He feels… fine? He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect that. Strange.

(Later, he’ll note that it was because he didn’t feel the telltale portal nausea and he didn’t struggle to keep his balance once he stepped out. Odd.)

The ground is solid beneath his feet.

No one is in immediate sight. The server… is empty?

It can’t be, of course. They must be in M-L'Manberg. That must be it. Tommy doesn’t worry. Dream is usually off doing important things, anyways. He won’t notice if Tommy’s gone. He won’t notice. He won’t notice. He won’t.

He tells himself this as he makes his way through an abandoned town to the front of New L’Manberg.

And… 

New L’Manberg is clean.

It’s not clean in the way that the explosions and the withers aftereffects aren’t there anymore. The land is still scarred, and there are still craters in the earth, and the roots of wither roses are still tangled with the grass, and the traces of gunpowder must still track in peoples’ boots. He can almost hear firework rockets if he strains his ears and the sound of a music disc if he really tries. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the walls. If he falls asleep, he’ll dream of a war fought from patriotism and for honor and with enthusiasm, without the lurch of his stomach in fear of his own leader.

For a moment, he closes his eyes, strains his ears, and tries. How futile.

It strikes him a bit too late, that he shouldn’t be standing right at the entrance to the city.

His eyes snap open and he sucks in a sharp breath.

He’s in— he’s in exile.

Tommy is in exile.

He can’t— he can’t be here, what— what was he thinking, what was he  _ thinking _ , he’ll be— killed, Dream will kill him, Tommy can’t even do one thing right, he can’t— he can’t,  _ he can’t, he can’t _ —

He can almost feel the arrow in his chest. He can- he has to go. He has to go, now, and he has to— he turns, the world spins with him, and through the haze he can’t find the path out, it’s just the walls and more walls and—

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He staggers, and he finds the sturdy trunk of a tree, and he braces against it, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and he breathes, he breathes, he breathes.

That’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s going to just— walk away. He’s going to find the nether portal again. He is going to walk into it. He is going to walk back to Logstedshire. Dream is not going to notice his absence.

Tommy lets go of the tree. He steadies himself. The breakdown can wait. The breakdown can wait.

Breathe.

He turns around, compass forgotten. He walks, unsteady still, back on the path he came, breathing, breathing, because even if he managed to get there, Tubbo would tell him to go because he’s not supposed to be there.

_ “The discs don’t matter, Tommy!” _

“Erm, hello?” a raspy voice calls softly. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Are you new?”

Tommy’s brows furrow, confused. “It’s just me, Ghostbur,” he says, turning. “Don’t tell anyone I was here. I’m in exile, remember?”

Ghostbur looks like he’s seen, well, a ghost.

Tommy blinks at him. A moment passes, and Ghostbur’s face seems to cycle through an unreadable mess of emotions.

And then he starts to  _ scream _ .

Tommy can do nothing but watch as Ghostbur backs away and screams, a sound that echoes through the city and brings a few doors banging open. He stumbles over his own feet and collapses to the ground and he screams, some sort of agony piercing through the clarity of the day. His form flickers— Tommy catches a glimpse of a— a  _ stab wound _ in his stomach. Tommy clasps his hands over his ears and even muffled, the scream turns into a wail as he flickers again and again, and he’s wearing the dirty, torn coat he was wearing during the Pogtopia days, and he’s hardly even see-through anymore, and he— this isn’t Ghostbur anymore—

“Gh-Wilbur, stop, stop, it’s alright, what are—  _ WILBUR!”  _ Tommy shouts frantically. He lunges forward and grabs the former president by the shoulders.

All of a sudden, the wail stops. Wilbur looks down at the hand touching his arm, looks up at Tommy, searches his face.

L’Manberg is eerily silent. L’Manberg will never be free.

Wilbur stands up. His hair is wild and unkempt. He has the sickly pallor of a ghost, still, and his jacket is torn. His face is gaunt. Dried blood cakes an open wound in his stomach. His eyes are dead.

When he speaks, his voice is flat. It’s nothing like Ghostbur’s raspy whisper. It’s clear, and ringing, and  _ cold _ .

“You too.”

Wilbur walks away.

He doesn’t float, as Ghostbur did. He walks. He’s so close to being opaque— if Tommy wasn’t paying attention, he’d think that Wilbur had come back to life before his eyes.

The only thing missing is the clack of his boots on the path towards the city. He passes clean through the sparse audience brought by the yell.

  
Phil sees not-Ghostbur walk away. He almost runs after him, and his feet pull him from the crowd, until he sees— someone.

Their hair is wild and unkempt. They’re watching Wilbur go.

They have the sickly pallor of a ghost. They shimmer, almost, in a slow, bubbling, lava-esque way, see-through and near invisible at the edges.

They turn to face the rest of the people gathered. Their face is gaunt. 

Something bright red and sizzling drips from the tips of their fingers and the ends of their hair, the same way water does when one has been standing in the rain, except this falls slow, it’s viscous, and beads of it form without any dripping magma present.

His eyes are entirely bright red, glowing, lava, no irises or pupils to speak of. They leak twin tear tracks of magma down his face.

The audience is silent. Something like horror causes any words they had to die on their tongues.

“Tommy…?”

The word escapes his mouth unbidden, and Tommy’s— whatever ghostly apparition this is— gaze snaps to his. “Phil?”

Niki and Fundy are frozen. Quackity blinks once, twice, rapidly, as though if he does it fast enough, this ghost will disappear. Skeppy and Bad and Antfrost just stare in horror, and Eret has started to shake. Sam places a hand on their shoulder. Callahan pulls out his communicator and types, fast.

What a cruel joke to have a funeral for someone, and for the someone in question to come back just an hour later. Phil wonders if anyone in this server will ever be able to truly rest.

What a cruel fucking joke.

Phil opens his arms tentatively. He steps forward.

Tommy shakes his head. “I’m not— supposed to be here,” he explains. His voice is raspy, and hoarse, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m in exile.”

No one says anything.

What are they even supposed to say?

Uncomfortable silence stretches ten seconds, twenty, thirty, until Tommy breaks it. He reaches up to the compass around his neck, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, Phil interrupts him.

“You’re  _ dead.” _

The sound of frantic footsteps on the ground reaches them, and Tommy doesn’t even seem to have processed Phil’s words before Tubbo bursts through their poor, sparse audience to stare.   
  


The only thing Tommy thinks to say is, “What?”

The boy in front of him doesn’t even register. He thinks about the words, “You’re dead,” and they chorus around his head in some horrible cacophony until he starts to shake and his hands begin to drip something  _ hot  _ and—

They aren’t supposed to—

They shouldn’t do that?

Why are his hands dripping…? Why can’t he… why can’t he—

Tommy’s breathing picks up again. No, he can’t— he _ isn’t— he’s NOT— _

As fast as it came to him, the thought leaves. How ridiculous. Phil is lying. He’s just— this is a lie. Dream wouldn’t lie to him. Dream must be waiting. He was right. Tommy will just see Tubbo and go. That’s all. Finally, he looks at the president, really looks at him.

Tubbo starts to tremble, violently.

Tommy, for a moment, doesn’t know what to do, and then surges forward to wrap him up in a hug. He doesn’t feel Tubbo’s weight against him, but that’s alright. Tubbo shakes even more. Is he crying? Tommy can’t tell.

The audience has dissipated behind them. When did that happen? It’s just Phil and Fundy left.

“You—’re— you’re—” Tubbo chokes out. “You’re d-ead. You’re— you’re—”

Tommy sucks in a harsh breath at that. Who last said that to him— must’ve been Phil? Why did they all think that? (Why did he forget it was Phil who said it?)

“I’m— I’m not, though.”

Tubbo pulls out of the hug and stares at him.

Tommy stares back.

Tubbo says it again, slower, as if it’ll make more sense if he says it slower. “Tommy,  _ you’re dead.” _

The blonde shakes his head, irritated. “No, Tubbo,” and he slows his tone down to match,  _ “I’m not. _ Think I’d know if I was dead, right?” He chuckles once, a little nervous. Why is he nervous? This isn’t—

Phil looks sick. Fundy looks horrified.

Tubbo gives him a searching glance. “Tommy, you— just—” he shoots Phil an unreadable fleeting look— “why don’t you come into New L’Manberg with us, yeah…?”

“I can’t. I’m in exile,” Tommy explains again, patiently. “Dream will be angry.”

“Just forget about Dream for now, yeah?” the president speaks carefully, as though he’s talking to an injured animal. “He’s away. Been away for a while. Just come with us.”

He holds out a hand. It’s shaking.

Tommy squints at him for a moment, then takes it. Tubbo makes a face when he does. Strange.

If Tommy was dead, he wouldn’t be able to feel Tubbo’s hand. Ghostbur talked about not feeling things all the time. Tommy is alive.

He lets himself be led into Phil’s… house? Phil doesn’t live here. He lives with Techno. This house doesn’t really seem to be anyone’s. It’s a house that’s here for the sake of a house being here, to fill space.

The bare necessities are here— a couch, some lanterns, an empty bookshelf, a barren kitchen, but nothing that marks it as anyone’s. There are bags against the door, though. Phil must only be staying here for a bit.

Fundy has left them.

Tommy enters the building. He enters it on his own two feet— he’s walking. Ghostbur doesn’t walk. Therefore Tommy must be alive. Obviously.

Dream would know he’s alive.

Phil gestures for Tubbo to sit in one of the chairs near the door, and the shaken president does so without objection. He releases Tommy’s hand a bit too quickly. Strange. Before Tommy can go sit with him, he’s pulled aside. Phil guides him to the small bedroom and tells him to stand in front of the dresser mirror.

Tommy looks into it.

His hair is wild and unkempt. He has the sickly pallor of a ghost, His face is gaunt. And something— _ lava,  _ it—

Tommy  _ screams. _

  
  


A new presidential decree: all mirrors in New L’Manberg are to be covered. Not one citizen objects.

**Author's Note:**

> If any of the creators say that they're uncomfortable with fanfiction, I'll gladly delete this work! The idea of a ghost not realizing yet that they're dead has been On The Mind for a few days so I decided to write something for it real quick, haha
> 
> Thank you for reading! Any comments about what you thought would be appreciated ^^


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